


He Gets the Flu

by subplotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, The flu, not really shippy though, temporary illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subplotter/pseuds/subplotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for the following anonymous prompt: "Imagine Murphy getting really sick and not telling anyone or getting help until he almost dies because he still is affected by what happened last time he got the flue plus he thinks nobody would care (please write this I will love you forever)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Gets the Flu

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cross-post from my [tumblr](http://somebodysmonster.tumblr.com) and is not a new fic, so sorry if you thought it was tbh.

It was easy to brush off the illness. Murphy just didn’t draw the lines in his head. So he’d thrown up a couple of times, big deal. Probably one of the less-than-appetizing bits of plant or whatever he’d eaten had upset his stomach. So he’d been really cold and then really, really warm off and on for the last several days. So he felt weak. So…

So whatever. He’d be fine. Even if underneath all his denial he knew that maybe he wouldn’t be fine, because a couple of other people had gotten sick too. And one of them had gotten very, very sick, but they were just weak. Succumbing to natural selection like they were supposed to or whatever.

But it kept getting worse. And pretty soon Murphy couldn’t even get out of bed, couldn’t get water or anything. Couldn’t work. So he stayed in his tent, wrapped up in his blankets, failing to eat because he’d just throw it up anyway and waste rations. He didn’t want to be someone who was known for wasting rations. He didn’t want to give Bellamy the satisfaction of seeing him waste away.

Of course, they noticed when he wasn’t around, though. Something like that. Probably they were happier. Probably they only came to check on him because they were down someone to skin the fish. Probably Raven had come just to see if what she’d been wanting for some time now had finally occurred.

It hadn’t. Murphy wasn’t dead when he felt her hand slapping against his cheek. He was just very…out of it. His head ached. Dizziness hit him even when he tried to push himself up on his elbow. Exhaustion was heavy in all of his limbs. And Raven’s hand against his skin was so, so cool.

"Murphy," she said, and for Raven, he thought, she sounded a little fucking concerned. Oh, he remembered vividly how her voice had changed, right after he’d told her his sob story, even if she had been trying to keep up her front. "Murphy, you need to come with me."

But he answered only with a groggy groan, his expression crunched up in something like irritation.  _No._  He wouldn’t go with anyone. They would have to drag him. They would have to force him, because no,  _no, **no.**_

Raven disappeared. Murphy fell into a sort of half-sleep, his heart beating too quickly in his chest, but he registered this only as a passing thought. Everything was a passing thought. Nothing mattered. Raven probably wouldn’t even tell anybody about this. She’d just let him waste away. They’d come back tomorrow to take him out of the tent—because they’d need the tent, obviously, to give to someone else before he was even cold—and they’d throw him in a hole in the ground. And it would be fitting. Because Murphy knew it; he  _knew_  he was dying of the flu.

The next thing he registered as more than a passing thought were hands on him. And he could barely fight them. He was so weak. But he fought them as much as he could, flailing his arms about in slow motion, trying to roll off the stretcher. He shouted, “No! No. Get off me.”

But the doctors—or whoever they were—were stronger. And Murphy gave up eventually, huffing out short breaths as he moved up and down, up and down, with their moving feet.

"He’s dehydrated," came a voice, and Murphy registered it as Abby Griffin’s. And then, just as a bit of sun hit his skin, he was out.

*******

When he came to, he was feeling much better. His head still hurt, but his heart had calmed down, and he could think a little clearer, once the sleep had left his head. But immediately, he was angry. He was angry he was here. He was angry he wasn’t dead. Just like he hadn’t been dead when his father hadn’t saved him but had died himself anyway.

Shifting on the cot, he looked down at his arms, which had wounds in them at the elbows. Probably they had managed some sort of primitive IV. He was making to leave the medical area, but someone noticed him moving before he could, moving over toward him. It was that guy—that guy who was always with Abby.

"Murphy, isn’t it?" he said, and immediately started touching him, trying to inspect him.

Murphy shoved his hands away. “Where’s Raven?”

"I’m not sure. You should continue resting."

"No." And he got up anyway, catching himself on the edge of the cot for a moment when a brief spell of dizziness hit him. He pushed past the guy and hobbled out into the camp as quickly as he could. It was dark. But he could hear the crackling of fires, and it wasn’t long before he found Raven, sitting around one socializing with Bellamy and Clarke.

As soon as he saw her, he charged forward, getting within earshot. “Fuck you,” he said, gesturing violently with a pointing finger. “Fuck you!”

Raven’s brows furrowed in anger. “Well excuse me for saving your life.”

It was in that moment that the guy from the medical area caught up, coming up to Murphy’s side. “You need to rest.”

"I got it," said Clarke. And her hands were so much gentler in Murphy’s bicep than the guy’s, coaxing him softly to accept her. "It’s okay, Murphy, come on. Let’s get you back to bed."

She stayed close to him the whole way, until he was moving to lie back down on his cot, out of breath and feeling dizzy again. The anger kept tension in his muscles.

"You should have let me die," he told Clarke, eyes burning as he looked at her. "You should have let me fucking die."

"Not after everything we’ve been through," said Clarke. She did Murphy’s examination, checking his pulse and feeling at his skin with the back of her hand, forehead and throat. "Look… Raven told us about your dad. Everything’s going to be okay, this isn’t like this."

The words hit Murphy hard. It was as if he knew what they were before he’d registered them fully, and he was pushing Clarke away now, tears pricking up and filling his eyes. “Don’t you talk about that. Don’t you talk about my father.”

Clarke was ready, though. She gripped Murphy’s wrists and forced them down by his sides, making soothing shushing noises. “You need to rest, alright? You need to get better. The sooner you relax and rest, the less resources we’ll be using on you, and the quicker you can get back to your place in the camp.”

That made sense. That seemed to quell the ache in Murphy’s chest. And he just nodded, ceasing his fight against her hold.

Clarke leaned over Murphy and touched at his temple, her expression relaxed soft. Murphy couldn’t recall her looking at him like that. Maybe for a second or two when he’d come back from the Grounders’ camp with his nails ripped.

"I’m sorry for wasting resources," he said.

"You haven’t wasted any yet. Just if you keep this up, that’s all." And she reached to take a canteen from Jackson’s hand before putting it to Murphy’s lips.

He took a few good sips, the water wetting his dry, dry mouth. “Thank you,” he said.

"You’re welcome. Should I tell Raven sorry as well? And thank you?"

Murphy narrowed his eyes for a moment, but eventually he nodded. “Yeah. Tell her.”

"Maybe she’ll come by to see you tomorrow," said Clarke.

And Murphy knew she wouldn’t but secretly hoped that she would.


End file.
